


Performative Aspects

by Anonymous



Series: Trope Bingo [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bodily Fluids, F/M, Female Sherlock Holmes, Genderbending, Kink Bingo 2013, Loss of Virginity, Oral Sex, Painful Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn Battle, Power Exchange, Sibling Incest, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 00:16:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock cannot concentrate, and it's becoming a bother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Performative Aspects

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle XV and the prompt _Sherlock (TV), Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes, mine, obey, understanding, same, force, disappointed, wrong, advantage, caring, heart, break_. If this was your prompt and you'd like this gifted, feel free to drop me a note.
> 
> Also fills the following row on my kink_bingo card: _pervertibles, verbal humiliation, bodies or body parts, power exchange_ , and _bodily fluids_.
> 
> For updates, fic snippets or to poke me about progress, please refer to my [fic tumblr](http://crookedspoonfic.tumblr.com/).

Screaming feed me here  
Fill me up again  
Temporarily pacify this hungering

—A Perfect Circle, "The Hollow"  


  
Sherlock throws her textbook against the wall and buries her face in her hands. Here she's trying to at least _look_ as though she were studying if Mycroft ever deigned to pass her door, open for his convenience, but her texts are all about bodies, _gendered_ bodies at that, and it’s always sex here, performance there, and how’s a girl supposed to concentrate? She’s sick of it.

Too much clutter. Her thoughts are swirling in disorder, not compartmentalising the accumulating data. Debris in a fishtank. Gender studies shift her awareness to what she would like to ignore: her body's reproductive arena.

There's no use to it, to the potential behind it, and yet the world shrinks around it, around the simmering between her legs and no matter the math exercises or chemical element combination games, the glowing doesn't wane. Or cease clamouring for her attention.

Everything is so distracting, every movement in Mycroft's dress shirt – he's worn it last night to dinner; the small gravy stain on the cuff is maliciously endearing – is distracting, his cologne on it is distracting. Its creases stir the hairs at her elbows, its hem tickles the tops of her thighs and every time she breathes, her heaving chest brushes the fabric, a touch too light on her nipples and she thinks of Mycroft's fingers dancing over piano keys, framing one half of Mozart's piano duet sonatas because Sherlock forced him to.

Sherlock exhales and it sounds almost like a sigh, heavy and resigned. Settling back, she props a foot on her desk and lets a finger steal beneath the edges of her skirt. _Weak, weak, weak_ has become her mantra for the times lust interferes with logic and she silently suffers through the coma of her intellect.

Through her open door she can hear the tap, plates and pots and pans clanking together in the dish water – Mycroft bustling in the kitchen, because Mummy told him to clean it once he's done cooking and despite his laziness, the fat sod actually listened. (She'd considered asking him to tidy up her room as well while he's at it, although she knows that would be pushing it, even for her. Mycroft might indulge her a lot, but in this he shares Mummy's opinion for once, that cleaning builds character.)

He’s _humming_ while washing up – Beethoven’s Fifth – and the sheer lack of creativity of it should be a turn-off, but it’s vibrating through her tingling skin, and she's sure she wouldn’t mind him humming it while—no, she would definitely mind.

Despite his enjoyment for pieces she can't stand, she's glad to have him here, even if he's not showering her with his attention. It is hard to sleep though, with him so close, when her senses train themselves to pick up every rustle, every flicker, every whiff, and she imagines her mattress dipping, fingers travelling up her shins, a shadow hovering above her.

Sherlock bites her lip, and resists the urge to walk to the kitchen and watch Mycroft, as if he were a quagga or some other once-extinct animal forced back into life by scientific mania.

She wants to believe it is her own curiosity instead of her body that compels her to cast decades of feminist movement to the winds and throw herself at his feet. It's not like she would subordinate herself to any man – indeed, she cannot even bring herself to think of Mycroft as one, even if – or perhaps because – she has witnessed his transition into adulthood; he's still her brother and that earns him a special place, apart from cultural categories. Where that special place is in relation to her or what it means, she hasn't yet come to unravel, although she's been picking at it for months now, ever since she opened the door to that clear-eyed stranger who presented her with new slippers for her birthday, because she had danced through her last pair the week before. She let him tie the satin bands around her ankles and suddenly his hands were too hot on her calf, his eyes too familiar and his lips too close to her shin.

He pulled her to her feet before she could kick him away.

"Dance with me," he said, rocking her to some imagined tune, and his palm burnt against the small of her back, even hours later.

His proximity affected her body in ways she could only later attribute to arousal – elevated heart rate, flushed cheeks and a tingle in her abdomen she had never felt this strongly before. If she had understood it then, she might have urged him to touch her more, let his hands roam up her sides, down her back, cupping her breasts, her arse. Sherlock's breath hitches at the memory-turned-fantasy. She is annoyed and frustrated, because she should be above this base human sentiment, because she misses his warmth against her. She had to content herself with impersonal touches ever since. She could live with business-like transactions of fingers on skin if they were delivered with more force, more impact, she could live with being pushed around – or away – because that would be easier to bear, to categorise. Pain serves as warning ( _you are heading into dangerous territory_ ), and punishment for not listening ( _I told you to stay away_ ).

Instead, she receives routine handshakes and kisses on the cheek, like from a distant cousin or an uncle she has never met. What is she to make of those? No one ever told her.

If this confusion, this disorder in her body, means she's growing up, becoming a woman, Sherlock would rather not. She'd be fine with staying a girl all her life. Androgynous in her childlike nature. A perfect neuter.

Her body, of course, has other plans. Her body _wants_. Badly. She cannot rationalise it away anymore. All she can do is soothe herself by reminding herself that even Greek philosophers preaching abstinence and purity of thought couldn't abstain from fondling their boy lovers. So much for integrity.

This is an identity crisis, and not because she's facing social taboos. No: because she's about to violate her own principles. 

Sherlock enters Mycroft's room without a plan of how to proceed, how to breach the subject, how to let him guess her intentions. At the foot of the bed, his suitcase lies gaping, waiting to be fed. She perches on her heels, contemplating all the possibilities of ruining it, so Mycroft will stay, and discards them all. It's not the only suitcase they own, and besides, something minor like contaminated luggage wouldn't deter Mycroft. He has proven on more than one occasion that if he wants to leave, he will.

Her musings are cut short when Mycroft enters his room, towelling his hands, and even this mundane gesture suffices to dry out her throat. She draws herself up again, not wanting to be at a disadvantage, or thought of as displaying herself wantonly. Skirts and naked legs wake that association in Sherlock, although she can see the appeal in them too. She has observed enough specimen in the wild to know they are powerful, worn to draw in men and women alike, and Sherlock is fairly certain she can emulate the required confidence with ease.

Mycroft, however, takes one look at her and says, quite simply, "No." As if to say she can't, or to settle their argument before it begins, to spare her the agony of asking, hinting, hoping, all of it.

“What do you mean ‘no’?” she asks, a bit exasperated. He didn’t even give her a chance.

Her heart is beating in her throat, because this is important and this could ruin everything. But she needs to know they're on the same page.

“What does ‘no’ usually stand for?" he sneers, and Sherlock's stomach drops. "I'm not going to do it, Sherlock. Please refrain from asking. It's deplorable.”

That word would be a knife to her gut, if the knives weren’t already there. But it turns her knees to jelly nonetheless. “I didn't ask you anything.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “You don't have to if your body is speaking loudly enough for you. You're flushing, breathing harder and your pupils are dilating. Or would you consider that too generic an observation? Well, you also push out your breasts and cant your hips whenever you're aroused. You fidget and pick at your clothes; there's a tiny tremor in your hands. And do you think I can’t _smell_ you?”

Sherlock groans. _You didn’t have to put it like that_ , she wants to say. Instead, she asks, "How do you want to connect my body language to arousal, if you haven't been specifically looking for it?"

He smiles, tight. "It follows a regular pattern. Fairly easy to observe. You can't help but notice it."

Sherlock cocks her head and runs a finger down her neck, baring it inch by inch as she tugs her collar aside. Mycroft swallows. "You're not gonna help me?"

"You're my sister!" he says, but his voice is strained.

"Precisely. And desperate." She pads closer, imploring. "Mycroft, I'm going crazy and I can't handle this on my own any longer."

"Surely my sister can find willing suitors if she's so desperate? I'm inclined to believe half the boys in your class have entertained the notion of sleeping with you at least once."

Sherlock grimaces. “That's disgusting, Mycroft. I fear their stupidity might be catching even sitting close to them and you want me—no. And besides, _I_ am inclined to believe my brother has entertained the same notion. More than once. Does he think I don’t notice him staring at my legs whenever I’m in my school uniform? He likes those stockings.”

Mycroft has not moved an inch backward since her advance, and now she's standing close enough to feel his body heat through the fabric of their shirts. It should ease her trembling, melt it away, instead of increasing it. She wants to touch him, draw him closer, but her arms are heavy when she lifts them. He drops the kitchen towel.

"What am I hearing?" Mycroft chuckles and encircles her wrists, palms scorching her skin. “Does that mean my sweet sister is still a virgin?”

His thumbs are tracing circles over her pulse points and before she can get weak over it, Sherlock pulls them away and crosses her arms. “So what if I am? As if you need experience to know what it's all about.” Too late she realises that thrusting her chin out puts her face too close to Mycroft's. His breath ghosts across her lips.

“Do you not?" He cups her chin, and sparks shoot though her body. "Why then would you come to me if you didn't care for the experience?”

Sherlock rolls her eyes, despite the growing redness of her cheeks. "Haven't you been listening?"

She wants to look away, but holds his gaze. It's drilling, searching, weighing. Figuring out a loophole out of this, or whether she's serious? Excitement thunders through the moment he grasps her shoulders.

“Give me one good reason why I should plague my conscience with corrupting my sister.”

“Please," Sherlock snorts. "You'd do it for that very reason. And I am offering it to you. Don't you want to live out your perverted fantasies without having to fear that I'll tell on you?”

" _My_ fantasies? Might I remind you exactly who is beseeching whom? I am not your toy, Sherlock, to use whenever you please."

"I am not belittling you, Mycroft. Don't think that," she whispers, a little breathier than intended, because this move could backfire horribly and she's not prepared for Mycroft's lasting contempt. "I know I can trust you with this because you wouldn't want to disappoint me. Not when I don't know where else to turn."

Mycroft is silent for a moment. Sherlock watches his lips draw into a line and thinks he should put them to better use. She fights the inexorable pull towards him, not daring to move a muscle and startle him out of his considerations. Yet without the distraction of translating frequency to word strings to meaning, she's aware of her body's temperature burning up her thoughts, her blood pumping rhythmically through her ears, the anticipation wrenching her insides.

When his hands travel down her arms to her fingertips, she steels herself against the threatening full-body shudder and converts it to a ragged breath. 

"What would you have me do?" he murmurs into her ear, and Sherlock has to suppress a sob of elation. His hands are so close to where it hurts, she can't control the impulse to tug them closer.

"Tell me of your fantasies," she says, guiding him between her legs. Distantly she hopes she hasn't started bleeding yet.

“My fantasies?” he lilts and his words mix with his actions. “This is one.” A finger connects with her and Sherlock all but gasps. This is curious, different from when she does it herself, because she can only anticipate where it will travel, not direct it. “What else would you like to hear, Sherlock?” he asks, so close, like a confidant, and Sherlock finds it hard to listen. It’s all blending together and she doesn’t know where touch stops and sound begins. When another finger follows the first, she digs her nails into his still-clothed shoulders. “That I want to hurt you?” 

He is humming and the sound is taking over her world. He is pressing against her, cheek leaning against her temple, free hand burning against the small of her back. When he curls one finger inside of her, all her thoughts boil down to _yes_. 

“I want to tie you up, Sherlock. Spank you. Make you bleed." 

Her whole body has gone rigid and she bites his shoulder to keep herself from crying out. _Do not distract me_ , she wants to say. _I need to concentrate on this._ But Mycroft, as usual, does not listen. He pushes further.

"I want to fuck you until you beg me to stop.”

He nips the shell of her ear, and Sherlock holds on tighter before her legs give out. Stopping is the furthest thing from her mind now. She would like to tease him, play the unaffected, but if she opened her mouth now, she thinks she might rather beg him to continue.

“What's the matter?” he asks. “Lost for words already? We haven't even started yet.”

Sherlock unclamps her teeth and wills herself to return the challenge in his eyes. It's so surreal. She can feel his fingers drawing out the ache between her thighs, rubbing lazy circles over her clit, before sliding back into her, and under different circumstances she might be appalled at how unashamed her body is, how readily it takes him in. But right now she wants him, all of him, even though everything is happening all backwards. She has pictured many scenarios over time, and dismissed all of them as improbable. She knew his reservations, his arguments, his reactions by heart, although her imagination might have allowed a kiss to happen before he ultimately rejected her.

And now, Mycroft is sliding his second finger into her before they have even kissed. Maybe that's why she had it all wrong before; maybe that's why it never worked. Would she break the spell if she attempted it now?

She nudges Mycroft's face, draws her lips across his cheeks, until she can look into his eyes again. Now that the notion has lodged inside her head, she can't help but pursue it to see how it pans out. His gaze flickers to her mouth.

“Why not get started then?” she asks, and finally gives in to that unnerving pull.

When their lips touch, it's Mycroft's turn to freeze. Having second thoughts, or restraining himself? Does he remember the times she innocently pecked his cheek or the edges of his mouth when she played the adorable sister in front of their family? Is it any less calculation now than it was then?

Before she can arrive at a conclusion, Mycroft's lips move against hers, deepening the kiss. His free hand cups the back of her head and she finds herself relearning to breathe, suddenly aware of her own tongue, her teeth, even her nose and, after another breathless moment, her lungs, but instead of tracing the muscular contractions involved in the respiration cycle she loses herself in the experience. Mycroft backs her against a bookshelf and she scrabbles to find hold, knocking over a tiny globe and other trinkets in the process. His outlines blaze against her own, and she can no longer voice the annoyance, the disappointment she feels at the loss of his fingers except in a whimper that he sucks from her mouth. Even with his hands on her arse, grinding her against him, there is too much obstructions between them – clothes and skin and bones – and she knows then it's no longer calculation, not even curiosity – it's raw need. She needs him touching her, tasting her, needs to feel him inside of her, and the impact of this realisation shocks her into wrestling to regain control of her body.

Mycroft doesn't let her down though, despite her struggling, and she wonders briefly at what point she wrapped her legs around his thighs. He rests his forehead against hers and licks his lips. His voice derails her thoughts again.

"Care to start telling me about what I do to you in your desires?"

Sherlock feels her cheeks heat again, more so than before. "You can read me, Mycroft, you can tell what I want."

"It's too late to play shy now, Sherlock. I can't help you unless you spell it out for me."

She bites her lip. He's still so close. How can she wrap her mouth around words, when all she wants to do is taste him again?

"You..." She tries to glare but his thumbs are brushing the undersides of her breasts; it's distracting. She could say whatever she wanted, have him do anything, maybe he would even comply with the most ridiculous scenario she could come up with. But she wants none of that. "I let you take control, push me around, use me like any other person you've had sex with."

Sherlock feels Mycroft's lips quirk against her cheek. "And what about now? Would you like me to use you now?" His lips stretch wider. "Are you certain you can handle that?"

"Of course I can!" Sherlock's teeth click when she shuts her mouth. How stupid, to let herself be goaded to that answer. She should have just told him to fuck her and be done with it, so she could live the rest of the month in peace, but of course, she had to accept this challenge. She can't back down now. 

“Glad to hear it." Mycroft sucks at the sensitive spot below her ear and Sherlock squirms, before he lets her stand by herself again. He takes another step back to give her more space. "On your knees then, darling sister. Show me that you really mean it.”

Shame floods to her cheeks and crashes as heat through her body. One part of her wants to answer she won’t do it, that this is degrading and she still has her dignity, but she would only be kidding herself, because her treacherous body slips down without a second nudge. Before she settles in a pile of goo in front of him, she takes off her panties, because they're drenched and really quite uncomfortable.

While she is unbuckling his belt, he has a chance to look at his fingers. They came off red. _Shit._

“You’re bleeding.”

“Astute observation, _brother_ ,” she spits, because really, that’s the long and short of it, the reason why she’s so rattled in the first place.

Mycroft smiles fondly and wipes his fingers with a handkerchief. 

“Go on,” he lilts and runs his forefinger down her nose, her mouth, her chin, which he tips up. He looks both smug and supportive, like he won a wager, but doesn't want to brag about it. She hopes her own eyes convey enough of what she thinks: _I could bite you, you know._

His zipper sounds like it's sighing, a slow exhalation like relief, or anticipation, a sound she should make, because – to use this hackneyed phrase – she's been dying to get into Mycroft's pants for so long.

Under normal circumstances, cocks don’t stir anything in her. She has studied their appearance in textbooks to find out what should make them so appealing, has even contemplated getting a plastic version to play with on more than one occasion, when her fingers couldn’t coax anything but unsatisfying orgasms out of her, but still the thought of them does nothing to her. Under normal circumstances, she thinks she might not really like them – but these are no normal circumstances and right now, she wants nothing more than to feel him on her tongue, to suck him until he spills. What a waste that would be, though.

Mycroft’s prick is only half-hard and Sherlock is curiously disappointed at how small it is. She imagined it to be bigger. Certainly penises looked bigger on pictures. Something pictures didn’t clue her in about, though, something she couldn’t have imagined by herself, is the soft, satin-like feel of it. She’s almost afraid to hurt him as she curls her fingers loosely around it to slide up and down, memorising every inch. A glance upward tells her Mycroft is not in pain yet, or at the very least good at masking it, so she adds more friction.

It’s slowly growing, hardening, and that’s another thing that intrigues Sherlock. She can actually feel his heartbeat throbbing through the length. It hasn’t picked up much, though, it’s still quite sedate, and Sherlock envies her brother for his composure. Must be his laziness.

She's burning up, melting through her thighs, and sparks shoot across her cheek like a cloud of spores when Mycroft brushes his knuckles against it. She draws her eyebrows together and when she looks up, a self-satisfied smile is playing about his lips.

“I take it that your _experiments_ haven’t veered into this area, am I correct?”

Sherlock feels her cheeks flood with colour again. “Not everyone can be a first-rate whore like you, Mycroft.”

"Is that what you think of me?" he tuts and sweeps his thumb over her lips. “If you choose to have a bad mouth, you might as well make better use of it.” There is pressure on her chin, forcing her jaw to open and when she does, Mycroft traces her teeth, tugs the edge of her lips aside. “Show me your tongue.”

Sherlock briefly considers biting the invading digit or sucking on it, or both, just to see what would happen, but after the clear directive in his tone, she wants nothing more than to comply. So she stretches out her tongue as far as it would go.

“Good girl. That’s better,” Mycroft murmurs and Sherlock wants to both snap at him and purr like a contented cat because he's treating her like one, but when the head of his prick touches her tongue, she thinks of nothing else.

Mycroft slides his thumb out of her mouth and over her cheek, leaving a wet trail that cools her heated skin. Electricity spiderwebs across her scalp when his fingers find their way into her hair, softly kneading the back of her head and guiding her forward.

His prick nudges her palate, glides farther back to tickle her uvula and Sherlock fights the impulse to gag. Her body convulses anyway, and she grips Mycroft’s thighs to steady herself. When she closes her lips around him, his hand fists in her hair, tugging at the strands, and she moans against his length.

He tastes faintly of sweat and warm skin and something weird that itches faintly at the back of her velum. The thought of it makes her nose crinkle, as do the chestnut curls tickling the tip of it on every downstroke.

It's strange. His eyes are like coals, glowing against her skin, and she feels like she were auditioning for a part she desperately wants, although Sherlock doesn't perform on stage and Mycroft doesn't judge her. Something connects inside her. She judges him for many things, but not for this, not when she wants it as much as he does, maybe even more so. They are bound by this now, a trembling thread that digs deeper than the surface layer of wet, skidding skin, into their very bones. There is no going back anymore, to the time things between them were less complicated, but then again, she can't remember a time things have ever been uncomplicated between them. It's who they are: complex characters in love with their own strangeness and drawn toward the strangeness of the other; it's why they are compatible and incompatible at the same time.

A sudden tender urge to kiss her brother overwhelms her, which is entirely ridiculous. Her mouth is already on him and the sentiment is nothing she would express.

Maybe he’s feeling it too, maybe he’s feeling something else – he’s swelling inside her, and when she sucks him back in, his heartbeat is (finally) picking up, pulsating hot and hard against her tongue and lower lip, echoing her own arousal that throbs low in her abdomen.

She almost yelps when Mycroft suddenly yanks her head back. Her teeth drag across his length, and he groans as he plops out of her mouth. He’s shining, wet and red and swollen, and Sherlock mourns the loss of warmth.

“Passable,” he says, but the flush creeping down his neck betrays his words. He clears his throat and his voice is smooth again. “You could benefit from a little more practice, though.”

Shame floods through her; she's ashamed she didn't please him enough, that she wasn't her best, that he might leave her to someone else until she's better at it – all these feelings are calculated, Mycroft wants her to feel them, she knows, but knowing doesn't make them any less keen, and she both admires and loathes Mycroft for it. Her shirt suddenly feels way too heavy and stifling. None of his words implied she was outright bad, but none of them implied he wanted to re-enact this either; she could read this as an invitation to teach her if she was hopeful enough. She isn't, though, and not even his teasing tone reassures her.

Mycroft is unbuttoning his vest when she tries to stand on wobbly legs, pins and needles shooting through her skin, up her arms, tickling her cheeks. She helps him with the buttons of his shirt, and while she does, he knots his tie around her neck, careful not to trap any hairs.

“What's this?” she asks, eloquence tied off with the circulation to her brain. She fingers the knot where it presses against her laryngeal prominence when she swallows. It gives way easily.

“Keep it," he says and pulls it tight again. "I might need it later.”

“I’m not your dog, Mycroft.”

“And this is not a collar.” He noses up her neck, and startles a gasp out of her as he bites the shell of her ear, the pain shooting brightly to her groin. “Bed, now.”

Sherlock does not trip over herself in her haste to get there. In fact, she can barely move. That one word, laden with promise as it is, makes it hard to keep her body from shivering in anticipation. 

Mycroft toes off his shoes in the meantime, steps out of the trousers that were already pooling around his ankles, and guides her backward while undoing her buttons. His gaze falls on her unfiltered and she cannot read what's in it – curiosity, cunning, desire? A sudden shyness overcomes her when her calves hit the frame of the bed. She doesn’t want to fall onto the mattress and present herself in the uncaring light of the afternoon.

Again, Mycroft smooths the transition by kissing her. She's in love with his mouth and what his tongue does to her own, and she's so engrossed she barely notices tipping over. He's laying her out on the sheet almost gently, as if she were one herself, flat and white and unblemished. His delicacy is at odds with what he confessed earlier, and a spike of annoyance rouses her temper from its cowing slumber, because she’s not going to let him think she’s weak and needs protection from him, from his darker urges he’s hiding away from her.

"Mycroft..." There's a warning in her tone that he chooses to ignore.

She slips her fingers beneath his dress shirt and splays them out on his naked skin, just feeling it, the softness, the warmth, the unreality of it. So strange to discover Mycroft is a being of flesh, with actual skin instead of plated steel, with desire for something other than good food, wine and power; she's seen it in him, knows it's bridled and contained, hidden from view, because it's a weakness, a hole in the armour that's easily exploited, and now he's laying it bare through his unguarded eyes, through the unbroken contact of skin on skin, his hand melding to her ribcage as though it's a part of her she has been missing all along, incomplete as she is.

"I'm listening," he says, before he steals the words from her mouth again.

She notices she’s lying on the ends of his necktie when she arches against him and it cuts against her throat a little. Mycroft smiles as if he noticed and pinches her so she’ll squirm again. Her skin tingles and it’s harder to breathe, so she gasps in little gulps of air, while he kisses down her neck.

“What are you waiting for?”

“I’m quite enjoying myself. Aren’t you, darling sister?” Mycroft hums against the edge of her breast. 

“I swear I'm going to murder you in your sleep if you don’t do it right now,” she hisses.

“Do what exactly, darling sister?” he asks, amused, and licks his thumb. “Who’s going to indulge you if you do away with me?” He settles back and the digit travels down her belly, farther down, until _oh yes_ , it presses against her clit.

She gasps by way of reply, and grinds against him, throwing her legs around his thighs to pull him back down again. He complies, lets himself be pulled, and traces her sex one last time before rubbing his prick against it. Sherlock’s breath hitches and she cants her hips for a better angle, because frankly, the friction sucks, there’s not enough of it, but Mycroft doesn’t do anything about it, content as he seems to be in leaving an alley of teeth marks on her left collarbone.

“ _Mycroft_ ,” she whines, but he doesn’t listen, continuing his path up her neck and she jolts at a particular vicious nip to her jaw. Her thighs are trembling with the effort of finding the right angle, the right pressure, and Mycroft doesn’t help her one bit. If anything, it's as though he’s slowing down his languorous glide against her, and she’s about to protest when his mouth covers hers again as if to suck out all her breathy little moans, and she momentarily forgets to move.

When she remembers again, she clamps her teeth on his lower lip. Mycroft’s startled grunt is entirely satisfying. For now.

She glares at him, although he's so close she's going cross-eyed, and he must know the only to get himself out of this is to— she yelps, releasing Mycroft’s lip, and tries to squirm away from his relentless fingers that are tickling her sides, in the process tugging the tie tighter around her neck and she cannot breathe fast enough to supply the giggles that are breaking forth from her. Spots are starting to dance across her vision, tears are prickling at her eyes and her body is tingling all over. This is no fun anymore, not for her at least, although Mycroft seems to be having plenty, and she rips off the tie, the knot designed to give easily in either direction, and knocks it against Mycroft’s shoulder.

In her head, she’s calling him all sorts of colourful names, courtesy of Shakespeare, but she has to catch her breath before she can vocalise any of them.

"Are you recanting your permission already? Because I have more ideas of what to do with you."

She’s exhausted and no longer in the mood to argue or, well, fuck, and had she known it could be that easy, she might have provoked Mycroft into tickling her months ago, although the notion seems a bit childish, and anyway, Mycroft never does as he is asked. Unless it fits his agenda.

She pushes at his shoulders, motioning him to get off her, because she still can't speak, but he doesn’t budge. Instead, he stares at her while she is relaxing from the strain. Her head lolls to the side, and she would liquefy if she could, disintegrate her molecular structure and just dissolve into the sheets. So far, only her cunt is melting and Mycroft uses this chance to rub himself against her again. Her breath hitches when his prick glides over her clit; she expects him to continue, but instead, he nudges her legs farther apart and a knifing pain splits through her.

"Fuck," she cries out, and tenses up more with every inch he slides into her. “That hurts!”

“Does it now?” His smile is just this side of a grin, and Sherlock hates him for the satisfaction in his voice. “Changing your mind already?”

Despite his teasing, he stills halfway through.

“I have cramps, you bloody ox. Easy for you to be so fucking condescen—mmph.”

His hand muffles her words, fastening over her mouth and nose.

“Shhh,” he breathes into her ear, “not so loud. What if Mummy and Daddy are coming home? I don't think they'd delight to hear their beloved daughter screaming like a common whore.”

He has sunk deeper into her while leaning over and she transfers the pain by sinking her teeth into the flesh of his palm in turn, until he yanks it away. The sudden motion jerks through her.

“Beloved my ass,” she spits. “I'm going to tell them it’s all your fault for assaulting and hurting me."

"Now don't be a spoilsport. Whose idea was this in the first place?"

Mycroft kisses her again before she can protest. She can't melt into his mouth, though. She's stretching around him and when he pulls back to grind down again she thinks this might be more painful than she imagined. 

Still, he's moving slowly enough for her to adjust, and below the razorblades in her abdomen there is something that feels good about this, if only he would—

"Pick up the pace, Mycroft."

“Impatient _and_ greedy,” Mycroft chides, but does as asked, shallow little thrusts that draw her attention away from the string. “Do you have any virtues left, lusty little sister?”

His twitching lip distracts her. Reminding her of their relation turns him on, it seems, the bloody pervert, but who is she to reprimand him for it? There's no alternative.

 _This is good. Keep going,_ she wanted to say, because it is, but she can't let his repartee go unanswered. “At least I’m not a lazy sod like you.”

Mycroft snaps his hips forward and wrings a strangled cry from her. She has earned that one, she knows, and would have laughed it off, if Mycroft hadn't rolled them over to pull her on top of him.

“By all means. Show me how it’s done.”

Sherlock is paralysed by the loss of warmth that cocooned her until now, the dress shirt little protection against the cooler room. Mycroft clasps her hands, kisses her knuckles, and the point of contact sharpens the contrast. She hurts worse, too, it’s no longer beginning to feel good, no matter what she tells herself: he’s sunk too deeply and she dares not move, but when he does, nudging her with his prick, more pain flares in her abdomen. She wants to scramble away, but he catches her hips before she can lift them and drags them down again, watching her jaw set and her eyes scrunch.

"Just like this," Mycroft says, guiding her along his length, then stops. "Go on; it's your turn. Didn't you want to prove you're not as lazy as I am? You will have to move for that."

She's trying to breathe, trying to lift herself from him, but instead of easing the pain, every muscular contraction in her thighs amplifies it. She's trying to ignore that as well, it's just a minor inconvenience, like always, but it's too sharp, too present, and she's too sensitive not to feel it.

Mycroft must be tiring of watching her hover, unable to disconnect by herself, and maybe unwilling too, because she brought this on herself, pushing too far too fast, but doesn't want to turn tail in front of him.

"How now – have you lost interest? That's disappointing, Sherlock. I can take over if you're not up for the challenge."

When he grinds back into her, she freezes, spine rigid. Her fingers dig into his forearms, and a desperate, high-pitched whine builds in the back of her throat. Tears burn hot trails into her cheeks and drop onto Mycroft’s stomach. They seem to soften him a bit.

“Oh, come now, Sherlock. It can’t be that bad,” he tuts and moves to sit up. Sherlock wants to shout at him to keep still and not move a muscle, but all that comes out is a broken sob.

Mycroft is visibly conflicted, vacillating between a curious blend of desire, concern and something she can't point a finger at. It's gone before she can analyse it.

"Are these tears for real?" he murmurs, gathering her in his arms, and his warmth slowly seeps back into her. She lets out a shaky breath, buries her face into his neck, and clings to the back of his shirt. "Let them out. Cry for me, sister."

“You’re a dick, Mycroft.”

“You wanted me to be," he says, rubbing soothing circles on her back.

“No! That's not—I wanted—” 

“To have sex with me, because you would be able to think clearly again if only I had my way with you. Or so you claim. Guess it didn't work out."

"Fuck you, Mycroft."

He's right: she wanted him, he even complied with her desires, but in the end her expectations were different. What more can she say to that? She’s angry at herself for wasting this chance – now Mycroft will probably never touch her again, because her weakness is appalling.

"Don't touch me." She swats his hand away when he wants to stroke her hair.

His prick has softened in the meantime so it only twinges a bit when he pulls out, but the hollowness he leaves is worse than before. _Weak, weak, weak_ , her mantra resumes.

Her eyes wander to his crotch, which is dark red from her blood, and she feels sick. Some part of her might have been aroused by the sight of it on his prick before – an affirmation of the act between them or a sign of Mycroft's claim on her. As if he had one, as if she would admit to it – or submit to it. As if it meant anything. She can't help but compare him to a lonesome caveman, back from an unsuccessful hunt. Except, she's not some trophy to be won or some deer to be stalked.

It's just gross.

She’s disgusted with herself, this is what her traitorous body drove her to, sullying both herself and Mycroft. The blood he could wash off, but the stain she left on his conscience would be harder to rub off. She knows he's just as guilty as she is for what happened, but she's the one who brought it up. Where confusion drizzled in her brain before, turmoil is whipping stray thoughts about. _What's gonna happen next? Does he hate her? What would Mummy say? What sound does the colour purple make? Did she do her homework?_

Mycroft notices her self-defeating silence and rolls his eyes. He slowly rises to his feet, pulling her after him. 

“Come on, let’s wash up. A warm shower will work wonders.”

She's miserable and in no more need for human contact for the rest of her life, but despite herself, her lips quirk at the unintentional use of alliteration. 

“That was horrible,” she says. Mycroft must be worn thin if the awkward boy she knows from her childhood peeks through. It was no more than a glimpse, gone in a flash, and he cloaks himself in finely crafted language again right after. 

“Spare me your opinions and kindly remove yourself from the crime scene.”

Sherlock cringes. That word is like a flick to the forehead, too close to the doubts scrambling her brains, but Mycroft's tone is light and blameless. She doesn’t know if it’s supposed to be reassuring or not, but Mycroft is waiting for her at the door.

She’s grateful for that much at least.


End file.
